


Bloom

by colorfulmagic



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:09:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24796717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorfulmagic/pseuds/colorfulmagic
Summary: “Ohmygod,” Steph blurted out, hand covering her mouth. Mottled bruising covered the whole left side of his face, and his eye was swollen shut, “What happened?”“Do you mean existentially,” Bruce asked thoughtfully. “Because I was reading an excellent think piece by Doctor R. J. Pullmer on his ideas of a reality based community that argue--“To your face,” Steph said exasperatedly.“Oh. Bar fight,” Bruce said, laying back down and pulling the bag of peas back onto his face. He seemed disappointed at the turn the conversation had taken.~Or, the one where Bruce has a black eye, Stephanie has a history project, and Damian has a bone to pick with his dad.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 189





	Bloom

“B, you’re back,” Steph said, dumping her bag onto the ground and rooting through the fridge. “Hey Tim.”

Bruce was lying on the couch in that dramatic way he did sometimes which he insisted wasn’t dramatic at all. He was holding a bag of frozen peas to his face. 

“There are ice packs right here,” Steph pointed out. 

“Yes.”

“Do you… have trauma associated with ice packs?” She tried. 

“Why— how would that work.”

“Mr. Freeze took all the ice packs in the city and then buried you underneath them while he laughed and laughed.”

“It could happen,” Tim said, nodding sagely. “The Condiment King once buried me alive under ketchup packets.”

“Is  _ that  _ why Damian wouldn’t stop referring to you as the mustard man,” Bruce said, sitting up. The bag of peas slid off his face. 

“Ohmygod,” Steph blurted out, hand covering her mouth. Mottled bruising covered the whole left side of his face, and his eye was swollen shut, “What happened?”

“Do you mean existentially,” Bruce asked thoughtfully. “Because I was reading an excellent think piece by Doctor R. J. Pullmer on his ideas of a reality based community that argue--

“To your face,” Steph said exasperatedly. 

“Oh. Bar fight,” Bruce said, laying back down and pulling the bag of peas back onto his face. He seemed disappointed at the turn the conversation had taken. 

“You started a bar fight?”

“No. but I did end it.” This was not helpful. Steph shot an exasperated look at Tim, hoping for some camaraderie. Tim was engrossed in his Nintendo Switch, and thus no help. She grabbed an apple from the fridge and sat down across from them. 

“How was school,” Bruce said, voice slightly muffled by the peas. 

“College was fine. My intro to American history class is killing me though. Kavinsky's a douche.”

“Which period are you learning about.”

“Um, nineteen twenties, I'm pretty sure.”

“Gilded Age or Progressive Era.”

Stehpanie chewed on her apple thoughtfully. “Has anyone ever told you that there's a definite disconnect between the aura you give and the things you say.”

“Are you trying to imply that I have too many muscles to be intelligent.” He looked faintly offended. 

“Damn, B,” Tim muttered from where he was underneath Bruce's legs. “Steph just called you a himbo.” Bruce twisted around to look at him, alarm on his face. 

“A what,” he asked. 

“A himbo,” Tim said. “Like a bimbo but a man. Think George from George of the Jungle. Or Green Lantern.”

“That's misogynistic,” Bruce said. “And untrue. Green Lantern doesn't have nearly enough muscles to be a himbo.”

“Uh, yeah B, he kinda does,” Steph said. “Have you seen him? Man could crack my skull between his thighs like a walnut.” Tim nodded furiously from beside Bruce. 

Bruce winced. “Can we please stop talking about this,” he said, face pained. “I have to see him this Saturday.”

Steph allowed this, mostly because his face still looked like it had a hot date with a bulldozer. “Anyway,” Bruce continued. “I only ask because I'm better with the Gilded Age, but If you want help with the Progressive Era that is really more Jason's specialty. He knows the reforms like the back of his hand.”

“Jason Todd,” Steph said, eyebrows raised. “Knows about Progressive Era reforms.” 

“No, seriously,” Tim said, brows furrowing as his thumbs worked furiously over his controller. He seemed to have lost, because he tossed the switch to the side in disgust after a moment. “He once wrote a whole paper for me on the relative approaches of Woodrow Wilson versus Franklin Roosevelt on fixing the economy and how it affected the period after. I had to edit out all the swear words he used, but for a paper that I begged him to do half an hour before it was due, it was pretty good. Pretty sure I got an A.”

“You had Jason write your essay for you,” Bruce said. His voice didn't sound happy.

“Um, yes?” Tim said weakly. 

“Would you like an overview of the word plagiarism and how it can affect your future.”

“Aw, come on B, it wasn't all that. It was supposed to be a partner essay anyways, my partner was just a little… outside the class.”

“Hn.” He still didn't sound happy. 

“What could I possibly do now, this was three years ago. I was still in high school!” A Glare. Tim sighed. “I’ll write an apology note to Jason.” The Glare did not diminish. Tim huffed, throwing up his hands. “There will be an essay on your desk on the dangers of plagiarism by Monday. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Bruce said. He settled back in place, wincing slightly. 

“So why did you get into a bar fight anyways?” Steph asked curiously. She finished the apple and threw it into the trash from her position on the couch, landing it perfectly before pumping her fist. 

“Dare.”

“You were dared to get into a bar fight?”

“No. I was dared to drink ten shots of vodka and then play darts. The fight came after.”

“Wow. I don’t… even know where to start with that. B, are you okay? Damian’s been telling us you’ve been going through a midlife crisis, but none of us believed him. Is it because Tim moved out?”

“Hey!” Tim protested, offended. He had started up his game again, and small shooting noises were coming from the device. “I resent that. And what Bruce isn’t telling you is that he was in disguise during the time. Matches Malone got into a bar brawl, not him.”

“Oh,” Steph said, relaxing. “Well you should’ve led with that. Why does everything always have to be such a hassle, with you?”

“My parents died at an early age leaving me with a craving for attention that can never truly be fulfilled. Or at least, that’s what my therapist tells me.” Steph snorted, a small ugly sound, and Bruce’s mouth twitched up. He got up, jostling Tim from his position, and stretched, still keeping the peas firmly planted on his eye. “I think I’m going to bed. Tell Alfred I won’t make it to dinner.” He waited for their agreement and ambled off. Steph scooched over to where Tim was sitting and using the detachable controllers started up a game of Mario Bros. 

~

Bruce entered his bedroom and tossed the frozen peas onto the low table. He collapsed onto his bed, smushing his face onto the pillow. It had been a long week. The wiring on the Javelin had gone wonky, and he and Hal had needed to spend hours together fixing it. An ordeal in and of itself. Harley had escaped Arkham again, and he always hated fighting her. Felt somewhat responsible for her. Then when he had gone undercover some low life had brought this little girl with him. Bruises around her wrists, and the kind of wide eyed terrified look that always made his vision go red. Had to pretend to be drunk and angry about a drug shipment failure so he could beat him up and take the girl to Mrs. Delgano, a woman he knew who ran a trustworthy girls home. Got a black eye for his troubles, but it could be worse. Helped with the Malone reputation, anyway. No one knew about the girl, just the fight. A creak from his door and a shift in air was the only warning that he wasn’t alone anymore. 

“Hello Damian,” he mumbled into his pillow. 

A beat. “How did you know it was me?” A high impetuous voice demanded. Bruce shrugged, and Damian huffed before shimmying into his bed. It was an educated guess. Damian and Alfred were the only people who really came into his room, and Alfred always announced himself. Cass, occasionally, but if Cass was trying to be stealthy he truly wouldn’t have noticed her. 

“One day you will teach me how to do that,” Damian informed him. “In any case, I must update you on the atrocities that are being committed against me daily. My maths tutor is under the false impression that I will do whatever she asks of me, just because you are paying her. She practically chained me to my desk and forced me to work on rotations and dilations. She tried to convince me that negative exponents existed. I fired her on the spot for that impudence.”

“You what,” Bruce coughed, finally looking up at his son. Damian’s face was scrunched into a scowl, and his small hands were waving in the air animatedly. 

“Or at least I would have, had Pennyworth,” he spat the name out, “not overruled me.”

“Damian. You cannot fire people you don’t like.”

“Well clearly not,” Damian said slowly, as if talking to a particularly stupid child. “Or she would already be gone by now. That is why I am asking you.”

“I am not firing Ms. Kordon.”

“Decapitation it is then.”

“ _ No _ .”

“Tt. Fine,” Damian said, sprawling his body out and huffing. “It would not have happened in the first place had you been here. You have been gone very often, recently.” It was said like an accusation. “You— Father!”

Damian’s face looked horrified, and Bruce abruptly remembered the bruising covering half of his face. 

“I’m fine—“ he tried, but Damian was already shaking his head. 

“I’m getting you an ice pack,” he said, then he ran out of the room. Bruce’s face felt tight and sore, like it would split apart if he applied any pressure. His joints ached, but that was normal. He kind of wanted to lay there and float, sinking into oblivion. He wouldn’t be able to for a while, he knew.

Soft footsteps informed him of Damian’s return. “Here,” Damian said, pushing him onto his side and pressing the pack onto his face. The coolness was a relief to his heated skin. Bruce pulled Damian up beside him and Damian snuggled against his chest, fingers digging into his shirt. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been away so long,” Bruce said quietly. 

“Tt.”

“There’s been a lot going on. But I’ll try not to let it interfere so much with coming home.”

“You haven’t even— we haven’t even been going out as Batman and Robin,” Damian said, voice still angry. It had taken Bruce a long time to figure out that most things Damian said sounded angry, whether he was or not. It was the way he refused to look at Bruce, rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, pressed himself infinitely closer that told him how Damian was really feeling. 

“I know. I’m sorry, Damian. Why don’t we spend the day together tomorrow, just you and me. We can go to that Indian place you like.”

“Tt. Fine. But only if you eat the Chicken 65.” Damian delighted in making him eat the spiciest dishes possible. Bruce would be forced to eat bread between every bite while Damian smugly plowed through his, innocently drinking his water once his entire meal was finished. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so cute. Damian’s body was relaxed against Bruce’s now, and he was cautiously probing around the dark circle. “How did it happen? You couldn’t have been in the mask.”

“Undercover mission gone wrong. Or right, depending on your perspective.”

“Hmph. You’ve been slagging. A by product of your old age, no doubt.”

“Ah yes, what is it you’ve been telling your siblings again. A mid life crisis, was it.” He ran his fingers through Damian's hair, marveling as ever at how baby soft it was. Bruce suspected this was the reason Damian used copious amounts of gel and heat to style his hair into those threatening spikes in the first place. 

“I’m only informing them of the facts. Grayson agrees with me. So does Todd.”

“You talk to Jason,” Bruce said, briefly pausing stroking Damian’s hair before continuing. That he had not known. 

“Of course. We all meet together for brunch, sometimes. He has atrocious taste in breakfast foods, I once saw him sprinkle bacon bits atop his waffles and top it off with sunny side up eggs. He called it his—“

“Housewives special,” Bruce finished, and started laughing softly. 

“Yes,” Damian agreed, and they laid together in silence for a while. The sharp pain had subsided into a dull throb, and he stopped pushing aside the pain and let himself feel it. “Father,” Damian said, and his voice sounded sleepy. Bruce was slowly drifting himself. 

“Hm.”

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Like and comment below if you liked it!


End file.
